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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


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THE  SEARCH  FOR 
THE  HOLY  SPIRIT 

An  Epic  Poem  of  the  Great  War 
and  Other  Poems 


BY 

JENNIE 
THOMAS  J.  FLYNN 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  JENNIE  M.  FLYNN 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 
The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


To 
THE  WAR  MOTHERS 

OF  THE   WORLD 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SEARCH  FOR  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT 9 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  PERFECT  JOY 29 

DISCOVERY  OF  NIAGARA  FALLS 33 

THE  LITTLE  KING 37 

ON  PRESENTING  A  HAT  TO  AN  IRISH  POET  ....  38 

IN  MEMORIAM — DANIEL  P.  MCGARRITY      ....  39 

TRIBUTE  TO  SIR  GILBERT  CHESTERTON 41 

CHIPPAWA 42 

ST.  PATRICK 43 

THE  SISTER  ISLANDS  OF  NIAGARA 45 

IN  CHATEAU  THIERRY 47 

LEST  WE  FORGET 48 

IN  BETHLEHEM 49 

DUFFERIN  ISLANDS 51 

DEAR  SACRED  HEART 52 

WHEN  LOVE  GROWS  WEARY 53 

AGNUS  DEI 53 

FOUND  IN  PASSING 54 

SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLSIDE 56 

SOLID  COMFORT — PORT  COLBORNE,  ONTARIO      ...  57 

SUMMER'S  PRISONER 59 

THE  QUESTION  OF  THE  SOUL 60 

DOUBT 61 

s 


Contents 

PAGE 

A  SONG  FOR  IRELAND 62 

MARY  IMMACULATE 63 

LEST  WE  BE  JUDGED 64 

THE  MOTHER  HEART 65 

GRATITUDE 66 

ON  CALVARY  MOUNTAIN 67 

Two  GHOSTS  WENT  WALKING  AT  MARBLEHEAD    .     .  68 

MOTHER  OF  GOD 69 

FRATERNITY 70 

IN  MEMORY  OF  RICHARD  CRICK 71 

ANN  AND  CATHERINE 72 


"And  is  there  care  in  heaven?  And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  for  these  creatures  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move? 
There  is'- — else  much  more  wretched  luere  the 

case 
Of  men  than  beasts. — " 

EDMUND  SPENSER 


THE  SEARCH   FOR  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT 

An  Epic  Poem  of  the  Great  War 

Argument. — The  Angel  Michael,  guardian  angel 
of  the  battle  fields  during  the  great  war,  who  had 
been  a  soldier  in  the  ranks  before  God  called  him 
to  lay  down  his  earthly  uniform  and  put  on  the 
Guardian  Angel's  shield,  grew  weary  of  his  earthly 
task  and  longed  for  peace.  Heart  broken  with  the 
suffering  around  him,  Michael  knelt  in  the  forest, 
during  a  terrific  battle  and  asked  a  favor  of  God. 
The  favor  was  that  peace  should  descend  upon  the 
earth. 

The  Holy  Vision  appeared  in  the  forest  and 
told  Michael  to  search  the  earth  and  if  he  could 
find  one  pure  spirit — one  steadfast  soul  among  all 
the  millions  of  creation — war  should  end  and  peace 
come  to  the  earth  for  all  time. 

The  angel,  with  a  joyful  heart  starts  on  his 
search  for  the  holy  spirit.  This  search  takes  him 
through  all  classes  and  conditions  of  men. 

The  angel  paused  reflectively  to  lean 

Against  the  cluttered  cannon  lying  near, 

And  gazed  in  heart-felt  sorrow  at  the  scene, 

Nor  marked  the  swiftly  falling  tear; 

"Through  God's  abiding  grace  their  souls  are  safe," 

he  said. 
"No  prison'd  spirit  waits  among  the  silent  dead." 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 

His  name  was  Michael.     Soldiers  loved  him  well, 

He  guided  safely  to  the  judgment  seat — 

Through  horrors  hinting  of  abysmal  hell — 

His  dying  comrades'  stumbling  feet; 

He  loved  to  clasp,  when  death's  grim  panoply  had 

come 
The  feeble  form  within  his  arms  and  journey  home. 

Around  him  on  the  shell-raked  sodden  ground 
Dim,  sightless  eyes  white-stared  the  crimson  sun; 
And  wounds  and  blood  were  all  the  sunbeams  found 
Now  war's  relentless  work  was  done ; 
As  through  the  smoking  leaves  they  lingered  there 

to  trace 
A  radiance  of  light  upon  each  quiet  face. 

He  stood  awhile  in  thought  and  sadly  gazed 
Upon  the  ghastly  scene;  then  slowly  knelt 
And  where  the  ruthless  hand  of  man  had  razed 
Made  known  to  God  the  grief  he  felt; 
"Almighty   God,"   he   said,    "through   smoke  and 

shell  I  see 
These  shattered  bodies  here  whose  souls  have  gone 

to  Thee. 

"Shorn  of  all  earthly  semblance  now  are  they 
To  God-like  man  from  Thy  great  kingdom  sent ; 
Tortured  with  gas,  and  torn  with  shell  they  lay 
Creation's  pride,  omnipotent; 

10 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Through  clouds  of  cruel  flame  with  staring,  sight- 
less eyes 

They  seek  the  answer  from  Thy  smoke-enshrouded 
eyes. 

"God  of  the  Infinite,  Whom  all  men  claim 

Their  Sovereign  King,  this  war-torn  world  release, 

Send  forth  Thy  mighty  arm,  and  in  Thy  name 

Bid  mortals  this  mad  carnage  cease; 

Thy  servant  Michael  asks — no  rightful  claim  has 

he- 
Save  this,  my  King:  that  he  has  lived  and  died  for 

Thee." ' 

And  as  he  spoke  he  humbly  bowed  his  head 
In  silent  awe,  for  like  the  lightning  flame, 
In  kingly  splendor  there  among  the  dead, 
Serene,  the  Holy  Vision  came; 
So  softly  radiant,  in  truth's  divinest  grace, 
That   Michael   deep  within   the  grass-clumps  hid 
his  face. 

There  came  a  startled  quiver  through  the  trees 
Whose  bare,  burned  branches  bended  gracefully, 
And  whispered  softly  to  the  evening  breeze 
Their  joy  for  this  great  mystery: 
That  in  this  lowly  forest,  stained  with  human  blood 
In  gentle,  kindly  grace  the  Holy  Vision  stood. 


XI 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


A  melody  divine  that  angels  know, 

It  is  the  Master's  voice.     Adoringly 

The  forest  worshipped,  while  in  accents  low — 

Like  some  deep-sonant  harmony — 

The  kindly  message  came:    "Arise,  My  son,  attend 

To  One  Who  loves  thee,  Michael,  even  to  the  end. 

"Lives  there  on  earth  one  proven  spirit  pure, 

One  heart  that  rises  over  earthly  sin, 

One  steadfast  soul,  that  tempted  can  endure, 

War  ends,  and  peace  shall  enter  in; 

If  thou  canst  find  this  faithful,  proven  soul  for  me 

Thy  prayer  is  answered,  son,  for  all  eternity." 

A  breeze  divine  the  trembling  angel  felt, 

And  in  a  reverential  vigil  found 

The  vision  gone;  beside  him  where  he  knelt 

A  lily  sprung  from  sodden  ground. 

He  soared  aloft.     And  but  the  kindly,  searching 

sun 
Among  the  silent  dead,  saw  Michael's  task  begun. 

THE   SEARCH 

Argument. — The  angel  searches  the  earth  with- 
out success.  Three  years  he  spends  in  his  weary 
quest  in  vain.  He  cannot  find  one  pure  steadfast 
soul  among  all  the  millions  of  creation.  At  length 
in  sorrow  he  unconsciously  discovers  the  forest 
where  once  he  had  seen  the  Holy  Vision.  The 
broken  cannon  is  still  there ;  but  the  mangled  bodies 

12 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


are  gone.  White  crosses  rise  above  them  where  they 
sleep.  Michael  raises  his  voice  once  more  to  heaven 
and  begs  of  Almighty  God  not  to  call  him  home 
until  he  has  once  more  searched  among  the  hearts 
of  men.  Yielding  to  weariness  he  falls  asleep  in 
the  forest. 

A  world  impervious  to  joy  or  tears 
Revolving  on  its  solitary  way, 
Compelling  time  to  register  the  years, 
Compelling  light  to  usher  in  the  day; 
Life  to  its  cycle  clings,  nor  thinks  of  God, 
Whirled  madly  on,  then  cast  beneath  the  sod. 

The  angel  knew  the  world,  but  yet  he  sought 
Among  the  wise,  the  noble  and  the  great; 
No  palace  of  the  rich,  no  humble  cot, 
No  home  by  misery  made  desolate 
Wherein  he  did  not  seek,  with  grieving  mind, 
For  one  pure  soul  on  earth  he  could  not  find. 

Within  the  world's  gigantic  industries; 
Through  dim,  deep  caverns  underneath  the  ground  ; 
Through  fair  wide  water-ways  and  inland  seas, 
And  winding  rivulets  by  woodlands  bound; 
And  through  the  waving  prairie's  golden  grain 
Persistently  he  sought,  but  sought  in  vain. 

Invisible  the  angel  was,  yet  near, 

That  mortal  converse  might  be  understood ; 

13 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


A  sense  benign  within  the  atmosphere 
Reminding  men  of  Christ's  great  brotherhood — 
As  incense  burning  in  cathedral  urn 
Awakes  the  souls  that  from  perdition  turn. 

Through  sylvan  glens  where  sunny,  south  winds 

blow  ; 

Through  Arab  trails,   and  mystic  eastern  shades; 
Through  glacier  pinnacles  of  northern  snow; 
Through  mountain  wastes  and  western  palisades; 
Through  low,  deep  marshes  by  the  world  forgot 
One  soul  the  angel  sought,  yet  found  it  not. 

But  often  when  his  hopeful  heart  felt  sure 
That  he  had  found  the  proven  soul  he  sought, 
Some  vagrant  thought,  iniquitous,  impure, 
Would   mark   the  soul   to  prove  where   sin   had 

wrought ; 

And  then  the  grieving  angel  knew  that  he 
Must  search  the  whole  wide  earth  unceasingly. 

Among  rude  savages  he  sought 

Whose  souls  to  demon  gods  were  sacrificed ; 

His  Master  died  for  men,  yet  none  had  brought 

These  darkened  souls  the  all-redeeming  Christ; 

Yet  Michael  loved  them  well,  since  none  may  know 

The  way  of  God  with  human  souls  below. 

He  saw  the  reckless  race  for  wealth  efface 
All  decency  within  a  nation's  soul; 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


The  world  stood  idle  in  the  market  place 
And  let  the  sensual  in  man  control ; 
While  screen  and  story  roused  the  vile  of  earth 
To    passions   that    would    rend   what    gave    them 
birth. 

Fat-jowld  and  paunchy  men  went  idly  by 
Their  only  occupation  woman's  shame; 
Slave-drivers  they,  all  justice  to  defy — 
Their  ready  tools  the  reeking  bribe  would  claim; 
And  licensed  crime  in  every  town  he  saw 
Protected  by  the  minions  of  the  law. 

The  cruelties  of  war  had  left  their  mark, 
Crime  followed  crime  in  blazing  infamy; 
And  yet  the  spineless  ones  lost  not  a  spark 
Of  their  smooth  riveted  complacency; 
In  horror  Michael  watched  them  as  they  went 
Through  reeking  ways  of  sin  and  shame  content. 

In  the  dark  night  when  all  around  was  still 

Engulfed  in  weariness  earth's  millions  slept, 

Close-winged  and  poised  on  some  far  distant  hill 

The  angel  for  a  lost  creation  wept  ; 

Enslaved  in  folly,  to  all  peace  denied 

This  vagrant  world  for  which  his  Master  died. 

Before  his  clear  angelic  vision  passed 
The  great  amusement  places  of  the  world : 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Abandoned  scenes  where  often  sinners  last 
Sad  hours  on  earth  were  riotously  whirled 
On,  on  to  Satan's  marching — his  to  be 
Through  all  the  ages  of  eternity. 

No  more  the  pure,  the  elevated  theme, 

The  master  touch  in  melody  and  art; 

The  golden  message  from  the  mind  supreme, 

To  liberate  the  soul  and  win  the  heart; 

In  blind  relentless  retrogression  men 

Had  backward  turned  the  wheels  of  time  again. 

The  theater,  the  screen,  the  dances  whirled, 

The  avenues  of  literary  art, 

To  banish  the  ideal  from  the  world 

Had  played  their  own  humiliating  part; 

While  nations  leagued  together  had  unfurled 

The  banner  of  oppression  for  the  world. 

A  sign  of  progress,  military  skill, 

In  intellect  or  science  to  procure 

Some  war-like  method  to  destroy  or  kill; 

Some  scheme  to  make  the  citizen  endure 

The  giant  combines,  legally  enshrined 

That  from  the  wants  of  men  their  millions  grind. 

In  this  great  war  the  world  had  sacrificed 
The  flower  of  the  earth  for  liberty; 
And  yet  by  those  who  dared  to  speak  of  Christ, 
Were  men  enslaved,  who  should  be  ever  free: 

16 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


The  little  nations  of  the  earth  in  tears 
Would  greet  the  tyranny  of  future  years. 

What  travesty  of  human  justice  this 

That   Michael   heard    from   men    pledged    to   the 

right: 

"The  enemy  this  lesson  must  not  miss, 
The  war  is  over  now,  and  might  is  right. 
We'll  change  the  map  of  Europe,  strip  the  Hun 
To  drive  the  lesson  home  that  we  have  won." 

Two  silent  representatives  there  were 

Within  the  world's  great  council;  summoned  not 

By  any  human  agency,  but  there 

When  conscience  died  and  honor  was  forgot 

The  Angel  Michael,  who  from  sin  recoils 

Met  Satan  with  the  seekers  of  the  spoils. 

Three  weary  years  had  served  their  time  and  gone 

Since  Michael  started  on  his  earthly  quest, 

When  all  unconsciously  he  chanced  upon 

A  well-remembered  scene  forever  blest; 

The  broken  cannon  there,  while  through  the  wood 

White  crosses  gleamed  where  once  the  vision  stood. 

The  evening  sun  in  crimson  beauty  shone 
Gilding  the  bracken  and  young,  springing  trees; 
But  Michael  sank  disconsolate,  alone 
Beside  the  broken  cannon  on  his  knees ; 
Too  weary  he  for  prayer,  but  sadly  wept, 
While  unseen  angels  kindly  vigil  kept. 

17 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Deep  anger  should  have  filled  his  grieving  soul 

And  yet  it  did  not — memory  was  there : 

A  baby's  face  upon  the  ocean's  roll 

A   grey-haired   mother's  sad,   heart-broken   prayer; 

A  maiden  crucified ;  Ah !  Michael  knew 

The  world  had  sinned,  the  world  had  suffered  too. 

With  grieving  heart  he  raised  his  tear-dimmed  eyes 
To  that  dear  home  wherein  his  Master  dwelt; 
Where  angel  friends  rejoiced  beyond  the  skies, 
While  he  within  this  lowly  forest  knelt ; 
"Dear  Lord,"  he  said,  "on  earth  I  could  not  find 
One  steadfast  heart,  one  pure,  unsullied  mind. 

"But  yet,  dear  Master,  I  would  search  again 
Throughout  this  universe,  through  all  the  years; 
Seeing  the  shame  the  infamy  of  men, 
Seeing  their  suffering,  their  bitter  tears; 
I  cannot  leave  them  in  their  misery 
Though  heaven's  joys  I  never  more  may  see. 

"Once  more  throughout  all  nations  I  shall  go, 
From  northern  hills  to  sunny  southern  clime, 
For  one  pure  spirit  that  all  men  may  know 
This  world  has  been  released  from  war  and  crime; 
Yet  I  am  lonely  now,  Dear  Lord,  this  wood 
Reveals  the  spot  where  once  Thy  feet  have  stood. 

"Thou  hast  within  Thy  compass  those  whose  love 
But  equals  Michael's  love;  Ah!  yes,  dear  Lord, 

18 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


No  happiness  have  I,  save  when  above 

I  sing  the  praises  of  Thy  living  Word; 

My  Master  died,  that  peace  should  come  to  men 

Here  let  me  stay  until  peace  dawns  again." 

Thus  spoke  the  angel  Michael,  once  the  friend 

Of  all  the  courts  of  heaven;  joyfully 

He  joined  angelic  melodies  that  blend 

Eternal  praises  to  the  Trinity  ; 

Yet  his  great  love  for  men  desire  had  brought 

To  find  this  soul  that  his  loved  Master  sought. 


MICHAEL     DISCOVERS     THE     PURE     SPIRIT 

Argument. — Michael,  who  has  fallen  asleep  in 
the  forest,  awakens  in  alarm  to  discover  a  mortal 
near  him,  bending  over  the  soldiers'  graves,  and 
breathing  a  prayer  for  the  dead.  Something 
familiar  in  the  woman's  form  awakens  a  joyful 
wonderment  in  Michael's  heart.  His  own  dear 
mother,  by  the  wonderful  ways  of  God,  knelt  be- 
side him  there  within  this  foreign  wood.  A  blind- 
ing light  reveals  to  his  soul  the  knowledge,  that 
while  he  had  been  searching  the  entire  earth,  a 
steadfast  soul  had  been  there  within  his  own  home, 
the  faithful,  loyal  soul  of  the  War  Mother  of 
America,  who  had  given  her  dearest  treasures  to  her 
God  and  her  country  in  a  spirit  of  submission  and 
love. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


At  length  engulfed  in  gloomy  lassitude 

Amid  the  soft,  green  grasses  Michael  laid 

His  weary  head ;  around  him  solitude 

Of  fragrant  fern-enbowered  shade; 

So  sweet  the  air,  in  solemn,  forest  silence  deep, 

The  angel's  care  forgotten  was  in  peaceful  sleep. 

Gay  plumaged  choristers  in  joy  around 

The  cannon  wandered,  or  with  widened  wing 

Arose  in  graceful  circles  from  the  ground, 

In  melody  of  welcoming; 

From  out  the  leaves,  aglow  with   friendly,   timid 

grace, 
A  squirrel  brushed  with  kindly  touch  the  sleeper's 

face. 

The  crimson  sun  bent  low  to  breathe  farewell 

A  miracle  of  beauty  in  the  sky; 

From  distant  lanes  the  softly  tinkling  bell, 

Of  drowsy  cattle  strolling  by 

Soon    banished    sleep,    and    Michael    stood    alert, 

amazed, 
For  where  he  stood  the  searching  eyes  of  mortal 

gazed. 

He  looked  beyond  the  cluttered  cannon  where 
Green  mounds  arose;  a  woman  bending  low 
Among  the  snow  white  crosses,  had  placed  there 
The  blossoms  that  all  forests  know; 
And  breathed  a  prayer  in  humble,  reverential  quest, 
That  soldier  souls  might  ever  know  eternal  rest. 

20 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Straight   springing   shoots   of   woodland    brambles 

bent 

In  benediction  at  the  kindly  deed; 
The  brake  caressed  her  hands  beneficent, 
For  here  was  proof  that  heaven's  creed 
Was   not   forgotten;   man   would    from    his   peril 

wake, 
And  through  the  depths  of  bitter  tears  repentance 

make. 

She  raised  her  face;  Ah,  then  did  Michael  start, 
And  blinding  tears  suffused  his  vision  clear, 
He  bent  above  her,  while  his  trembling  heart 
Beat  softly  that  she  might  not  hear; 
What  joy  was  this?  what  strange,  sweet  call  of 

earth  had  brought 
His  mother  here,  though  her  dear  eyes  could  see 

him  not. 

A  blinding  light  awoke  within  his  soul, 
The  Spirit  Pure;  Ah,  could  it  be  that  He 
Whose  mighty  strength  the  ways  of  men  control, 
Had  caused  this  wondrous  thing  to  be: 
Had  summoned  her  unto  this  far  off  foreign  land, 
That  he,  her  son,  might  learn  her  worth  and  under- 
stand. 

Three  weary  years  he  travelled  far  and  wide 
Across  the  earth,  through  bitter  blinding  tears, 
While  in  his  home  there  had  been  sanctified 
A  steadfast  soul  throughout  the  years; 

21 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


A  shining  soul  that  earthly  trial  could  not  dim 
Who  all  his  life  with  tender  love  had  cared  for 
him. 

His  thoughts  returned  again  to  childhood  days 
Within  the  home  that  knew  her  loving  heart ; 
He  searched  his  mind  in  vain  for  evil  ways, 
Her  life  had  been  the  better  part ; 
True  to  her  God  and  faithful  to  her  country's  law 
Had  lived  this  brave  war-mother  of  America. 

"Dear  Lord,"  he  said,  "is  this  the  proven  soul? 

Ah,  Michael  must  not,  cannot  be  the  one 

To  judge  her  loving  heart."    "Thy  doubts  control," 

He  heard,  "and  thou  shalt  hear,  My  son." 

The  angel   knelt;  once  more  within   that   blessed 

wood 
In  grace  serene,  the  radiant  Holy  Vision  stood. 

The  trembling  angel  saw  his  mother  rise 

Beyond  the  very  cannon  where  he  stood, 

And  greet  a  mortal,  that  to  his  surprise 

Approached  them  in  the  silent  wood: 

His  clever  cousin  Jean;  perhaps,  she  too  had  come 

To  seek  him  here  and  bring  his  lifeless  body  home. 

"What  nonsense,  Mary,  to  be  kneeling  there 
So  thinly  clad,  upon  that  sodden  ground — 
As   though    that   God   of   yours   could   hear   your 
prayer — 

22 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


What  consolation  have  you  found 

For  all  your  tears?     This  God  you  serve  it  seems 

to  me 
Has  treated  you  throughout  the  years  right  cruelly. 

"He  took  your  husband  ere  his  youth  was  past 

And  left  you  here  to  carry  on  alone; 

He  took  your  home  in  one  financial  blast 

And  in  another  all  you  own; 

Not  satisfied,  he  took  from  you  your  stalwart  sons 

And  sent  them  here  as  targets  for  the  German  guns. 

"I  have  no  patience  with  the  weakling  soul 
That  stoops  supinely  when  the  rod  smites  low; 
You  owe  Him  nothing — you,  yourself  control 
The  life  you  lead,  the  path  you  go; 
What  puzzles  me  you're  not  a  cringing  hypocrite 
And  yet  what  cause  have  you  to  thank  the  Infinite?" 

In  horror  Michael  bent;  his  mother's  eyes 

Gazed  upward  where  the  crimson  splendor  shone, — 

As  though  her  gaze  would  penetrate  the  skies 

To  reach  the  gentle  Saviour's  throne; 

While  on  her  cheek  he  saw  the  burning  blush  of 

shame 
That  friend  of  hers  should  thus  insult  His  sacred 

name. 

"He  gave  me  love,"  she  breathed,  "a  husband  true, 
And  friendship  that  will  last  until  the  end; 

23 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


He  gave  me  health  and  strength  the  right  to  do, 

And  courage  that  no  storm  shall  bend; 

He  gave  me  sons — my  darlings  proudly  plead  for 

me — 
They  died  defending  their  great  country's  liberty. 

"For  this  I  love  Him,  Jean ;  in  every  flower, 

In  every  budding  leaf  I  see  His  face; 

He  comes  to  me  in  sacred,  silent  hour 

With  gentle,  all-inspiring  grace; 

And  though  my  two  brave  boys  went  out  to  face  the 

foe, 
God  willed  it,  Jean;  no  other  will  my  soul  shall 

know. 

"Beneath  the  ocean  rolling  restlessly 

My  youngest  laddie  lies;  and  I  have  come 

To  see  these  waves  that  hold  the  heart  of  me, 

'Twill  give  me  strength  to  bear  me  home; 

And  through  this  land  where  Michael's  weary  feet 

have  trod 
I'll  seek  his  grave — my  first  born  son,  who  rests 

with  God. 

"Each  mound  whereon  I  kneel,  a  mother's  heart 

In  dreaming  sees  it  rise  forever  here; 

Shall  I  refuse  the  ministering  part 

To  heroes  that  the  world  holds  dear? 

From  every  soldier  grave  in  France  a  prayer  should 

rise, 
To  bring  the  wealth  of  mother  love  beyond  the 

skies. 

24 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


"Though  my  dear  lads  I  never  more  shall  see, 

Yet  all  the  sorrows  of  this  earthly  sod 

Can  never  take  away  this  joy  from  me: 

That  my  two  sons  are  with  their  God. 

A  little  while  and  life's  dim  pages  closed  shall  be, 

God  grant  that  I  may  meet  them  in  eternity." 

They  turned  away;  the  angel  raised  his  head 

To  where  his  gentle  Master  shining  stood ; 

Angelic  choristers,  by  cherubs  led, 

Adored  him  in  the  silent  wood; 

"Thou    heardest,    son;"    and    Michael    knew    his 

search  was  o'er 
The  Blessed  One,  within  the  wood  would  come  no 

more. 

THE  PURE  SPIRIT 

Argument. — Michael  discovers  that  his  mother's 
steadfast  soul  is  the  pure  spirit  that  the  Master 
longs  for.  He  follows  the  boat  that  bears  his 
mother  home  to  America,  in  wide-winged  tireless 
flight  above  the  ocean.  He  enters  once  again  the 
old,  familiar  home  and  sees  each  well  known 
scene. 

Beside  his  mother  when  she  breathes  her  evening 
prayer,  Michael  hears  her  petition  God  to  take  her 
home,  that  she  may  meet  her  loved  ones  in  eternity. 
The  angel  of  death  enters  and  claims  his  tribute 
from  life.  Her  dying  eyes  recognize  Michael  as 

25 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


he  stands  beside  her  chair.  Michael  bears  her  pure 
spirit  to  heaven,  where  the  Master  rewards  him 
by  sending  peace  to  earth  for  all  time. 

The  search  was  ended ;  yet  in  Michael's  heart, 
Not  joy,  but  sorrow  came  to  counsel  him: 
It  seemed  his  dear  one  must  fulfill  earth's  part 
Before  she  joined  the  circling  seraphim ; 
And  yet  those  broken  bodies  in  the  wood 
Where  once  in  grace  the  Holy  Vision  stood. 

The  crash  of  gun ;  the  scowl  of  cruel  hate, 

As  man  to  man  the  gleaming  steel  sank  in; 

The  snarling,  grasping  greed  commensurate 

With  each  succeeding  century  of  sin; 

The  greed  that  trapped  men's  souls  with  treachery — 

Though  millions  died  the  world  would  not  be  free. 

His  thoughts  returned  to  days  when  sin  essayed 

To  sink  its  infamy  within  his  soul; 

And  he  had  faced  it  calmly,  unafraid, 

His  Master's  strength  all  evil  could  control; 

Yet  now  he  trembled  lest  the  world  should  see 

The  Cross  again  upraised  on  Calvary. 

The  sacrifice  of  war  had  been  in  vain 
Humanity  was  now  the  trader's  prize; 
Through  reeking  ways  his  vision  saw  again 
The  death  of  freedom  in  dull,  staring  eyes; 
The  trail  of  fire  and  sword ;  the  curse  of  crime 
Still  ushered  in  each  golden  hour  of  time. 

26 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Beside  the  boat  that  bore  his  mother  home 
The  angel  travelled,  swiftly,  tirelessly, 
Wide-winged  above  the  ocean's  surging  foam, 
Serene  in  calm  angelic  majesty; 
Locked  deep  within  his  heart  this  joy  to  him: 
His  mother's  soul  would  join  the  seraphim. 

No  weary  waiting  in  that  outer  world — 
That  Purgatory,  where  sad  souls  must  wait — 
But  straight  to  God  her  spirit  should  be  whirled, 
Within  his  loving  arms  to  heaven's  gate; 
And  suffering  on  earth  should  find  release 
Forever  in  the  blessed  joys  of  peace. 

Within  their  old,  familiar  home  he  went, 

Close  by  her  side  through  every  well  known  scene ; 

Through  Laddie's  room — the  boy  whom  war  had 

sent, 

To  die  beneath  the  ocean's  rolling  green; 
And  when  his  mother  breathed  her  evening  prayer, 
The  Angel  Michael  knelt  beside  her  chair. 

He  heard  her  murmuring  his  father's  name, 
His  brother's  and  his  own,  and  soldiers  brave, 
Whose  death  had  won  for  them  the  hero's  claim 
Through  shot  and  shell,  or  underneath  the  wave; 
And  then  he  heard  "Lord,  grant  that  I  may  see 
Soon,  soon  in  death  my  darling  ones  with  Thee." 

Within  the  room  another  presence  came 
Well  known  to  Michael :  the  sad  angel  death, 

27 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Another  tribute  from  this  life  to  claim 
Who  yielded  him  her  last  departing  breath; 
Yet  ere  she  died  she  saw  beside  her  chair 
The  Angel  Michael  calmly  waiting  there. 

Once  more  the  earth  in  peaceful  plenty  blooms; 
Once  more  man  worships  with  his  brother  man 
The  one  true  God;  no  fire  of  hate  consumes, 
But  boundless  love  for  God's  eternal  plan; 
No  soldier  souls  has  Michael  now  to  shield 
From  evil  spirits  on  the  battle-field. 

But  often  when  angelic  voices  ring, 
He  steals  away  and  seeks  the  Saviour's  feet, 
And  humbly  begs  of  heaven's  gentle  King, 
Safe  passage-way  to  earth,  once  more  to  greet 
Sad  souls  disconsolate,  that  he  may  prove 
The  way  to  heaven  lies  through  boundless  love. 


28 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE   PERFECT  JOY 
A   Legend  of  St.  Francis  of  Assist 

St.  Francis  of  Assisi  chanced  to  be 

Abroad  one  wintry  day  with  Brother  Leo, 

To  reach  Maria  degli  Angeli 

Before  the  storm,  they  pleaded  low,  "Laus  Deo;" 

The  wind  was  cold  that  stung  their  naked  feet, 

Their  gowns  were  old  and  stiffened  with  the  sleet. 

Each  cutting  gust  that  tingled  in  the  air 
Within  their  nostrils  found  a  breath  that  trembled ; 
Yet  in  their  souls  a  reverie  of  prayer 
Ail-patiently  their  straying  thoughts  assembled ; 
With  hurried  step,  through  misty  pathways  dim, 
St.  Francis  reached  his  friend  and  counselled  him. 

"O  Brother  Leo,  though  it  please  our  Lord 
That  all  the  Brothers  Minor  should  in  glory 
Reveal  God's  word,  and  through  His  grace  accord 
To  leave  the  world  the  martyr's  faithful  story; 
Yet  write  this,  Leo,  note  it  well  with  care, 
The  Perfect  Joy  is  not  discovered  there." 

Through  silent  ways  they  went,  when  once  again 
St.  Francis  roused  his  friend  from  meditation: 

29 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


"O  Brother  Leo,  to  give  sight  to  men; 
To  watch  the  dumb  in  blissful  exultation 
Speak  at  thy  touch ;  to  animate  the  dead 
Is  good, — yet  not  the  Perfect  Joy,"  he  said. 

Still  further  on  they  walked  the  saint  once  more 
From  Leo's  mind  no  gentle  thought  concealing; 
Admired  the  wisdom  of  those  gone  before, 
Who  gave  the  world  their  prophecies  revealing; 
'  'Tis  well  to  know  that  men  are  comforted, 
Yet  not  the  Perfect  Joy,"  St.  Francis  said. 

Half  frozen  now  the  stinging  sleet  they  face, 
The  saint  still  speaking,  while  his  accents  quivered : 
"The  Brothers  Minor — may  they  merit  grace — 
Have  to  the  leper  gentle  ease  delivered, 
And  saved  the  outcasts  of  the  earth  from  sin ; 
Yet  Perfect  Joy  is  not  contained  therein. 

"O  Brother  Leo,  little  sheep  of  God 
If  men  could  know  the  stars,  the  planets'  motion, 
The  way  of  trees,  rocks,  birds,  of  men  who  trod 
This  sinful  earth  with  semblance  of  devotion ; 
The  secrets  of  the  soul,  the  heart  laid  bare — 
The  Perfect  Joy  would  not  be  written  there."    . 

Now  as  they  walked  came  down  the  blinding  snow, 
While  white  crowned  mountains  sentinelled  their 
vision ; 

30 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


And  Leo  questioned  in  a  murmur  low — 

The  while  he  waited  for  the  saint's  decision — 

"Yet  if  the  infidel  to  Christ  be  led?" 

"  'Tis  not  the  Perfect  Joy,"  St.  Francis  said. 

"O  Little  Father,  tell  me  in  God's  name 

What  Joy  is  this  that  good  deeds  may  not  waken? 

Should  Leo  never  this  great  vision  claim, 

Then  were  his  soul  all-sorrowful,  forsaken." 

"Sancta  Maria  degli  Angeli," 

St.  Francis  breathed,  "may  bring  this  Joy  to  thee." 

"When  we  arrive  amidst  this  snow  and  rain, 
Benumbed  with  cold,  exhausted  with  starvation; 
Should  we  no  shelter  greet,  but  rude  refrain, 
The  porter's  voice  in  angry  execration 
Shout  'Who  are  you?'    'Thy  brothers,'  we  reply, 
And  he  our  plea  for  shelter  should  deny." 

"If  rudely  his  abusive  voice  should  raise : 

'You  lie,  you  two  lewd  fellows,  sin  malignant 

Is  in  your  faces;  you  have  spent  your  days 

In  stealing  from  the  poor,  from  hearts  benignant;' 

And  as  he  bade  us  go  his  doors  disclosed 

The  warmth  and  shelter  that  his  deed  opposed. 

"If  thus  abused  and  rudely  turned  away — 
Exhausted,  starved,  yet  patiently  enduring — 
Though  all  the  bitter  hours  from  night  till  day 
Instead  of  aid  were  cold,  bleak  death  procuring; 

31 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


YET  LOVE  WITHIN   OUR  HEARTS,    BELIEF  THAT   HE 
HAD  SPOKEN  BUT  THE  TRUTH  TO  SUCH  AS  WE. 

"That  God  had  prompted  him;  He  knew  our  need, 
Base,  evil  pride,  insidious,  compelling 
Must  be  subdued;  no  angry  word  or  deed 
Should    cloud    the    heart    wherein    the    Christ    is 

.  dwelling: 

Note,  Leo,  he  who  can  himself  control, 
Shall  find  the  Perfect  Joy  within  his  soul. 

"Above  all  gifts  the  Holy  Spirit  sends, 
To  conquer  thy  own  self  is  all-transcendent; 
The  soul  that  suffers  wrong,  yet  humbly  bends, 
Shall  rise  to  God  all-glorious,  resplendent; 

THE  PERFECT  JOY  IS  THAT  WHICH  HAS  SUFFICED, 
TO   SUFFER    EVIL    FOR  THE    LOVE    OF   CHRIST." 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


DISCOVERY  OF  NIAGARA  FALLS 

Louis  Hennepin,  a  Franciscan  priest,  left  Quebec 
late  in  October,  1678,  with  two  companions,  in  a 
small  bark  canoe.  He  arrived  in  Kingston. 

He  joined  La  Salle,  came  west  in  a  ten-ton 
boat  and  was  frozen  in  ice  off  Toronto. 

Dec.  5th  of  the  same  year,  they  broke  the  ice 
from  their  little  ship  and  crossed  Lake  Ontario. 
La  Salle  went  up  Eastern  side,  Father  Hennepin 
climbed  Western  side,  discovered  Falls  on  Decem- 
ber 6th,  1678,  camping  same  night  at  Chippawa. 
Parkman,  vol  5,  — T.  J.  F. 

"French  in  Canada." 

FATHER  Lo.uis  HENNEPIN 
(1678) 

From  sturdy  walls  of  the  Recollect, 

Through  cold  October  sleet, 
He  left  Quebec  in  his  capote  gray, 
Straight  west  through  street  of  great  Champlain, 
South  he  passed  down   Ship  Workers'  Lane, 
Coarse,  peaked  hood  aslant  to  the  rain, 

And  sandals  on  his  feet. 

On  his  back  an  altar  in  miniature, 

High  carven  in  relief, 
St.  Francis'  cord  held  strong  and  secure. 

33 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


A  merciful  way  his  cord  he  had  tied, 
Sparing  a  man  Who  had  shamefully  died: 
Blest  Mary's  Son  Who  was  crucified 
Each  pierced  hand  to  a  thief. 


His  boat  was  bark  from  a  magic  tree, 

A  wondrous  birchen  prison; 
Two  voyageurs,  the  priest  made  three; 
Its  sides  were  scored,  its  ribs  were  spliced, 
'Twas  pitiful  small,  but  yet  sufficed 
To  carry  three  and  the  Spirit  of  Christ — 

Him  who  had  truly  risen. 


South-west  sailed  wedges  of  flying  geese, 

He  followed  a  course  they  held. 
He  struck  his  camp  where  the  St.  Maurice 
Came  rushing  to  meet  St.  Lawrence's  tides, 
From  southern  slopes  down  high  divides, 
A  gloom  from  the  Lonely  Lauren-tides, 
And  pine  tree  sentinelled. 


He  climbed  Lachine,  south-westward  steered, 

To  stem  a  rushing  shoal, 
A  flying  mane  green-white  which  veered, 
Where  cedared  isles  of  misty  glades 
Broke  wild  and  watery  enfilades, 
To  foam  spun  feathery  white  cascades, 

Nor  stayed  its  eastward  roll. 

34 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Came  Marians'  steeds  in  fearful  surge, 
Down  Sault's  great  rock-walled  bed, 
Swift  running  under  a  savage  scourge, 
Fiercely  on  age-long  eastern  quest, 
Flanks  a'  foam,  high  roaring  abreast, 
Long  ere  he  gained  their  topmost  crest, 
His  paddle  stained  with  red! 

West  by  south  up  Rapide  du  Plat, 

His  paddle  ever  played, 
Through  land  of  the  savage  Iroquois, 
At  vigil  of  Souls,  on  a  ghostly  sea, 
Telling  his  beads  in  an  ecstasy, 
He  made  his  fort  on  the  Cataraqui, 

High-hearted — unafraid. 

Skirting  Frontenac's  northern  side, 

Ever  a'west  he  sailed; 
Crossing  in  blessed  advent  tide, 
He  landed  on  great  Niagara's  shore, 
South  he  turned  to  a  sullen  roar; 
His  Crucifix  on  his  heart  he  bore, 

Never  his  spirit  failed. 

"Glory  to  God  whose  hand  did  forge 

This  wondrous  watery  road." 
On  ragged  rim  of  a  fearful  gorge, 
South  he  toiled  through  brambles  and  moss, 
Passed  rapids  raging,  like  souls  a'toss; 
He  blessed  himself  with  the  sign  of  the  Cross, 

At  the  cliff  where  the  cataract  flowed! 

35 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Good  Francis'  cord  was  quick  untied, 

Small  waxen  tapers  alight, 
He  said  the  Mass  of  the  sanctified. 
South  he  turned  through  a  wintry  haze, 
His  eyes  were  glowing,  his  heart  ablaze, 
By  Chippawa's  flow,  with  a  song  of  praise, 

He  pitched  his  camp  for  night. 

O'  Humble  Server  of  God's  good  laws, 

Your  saga  will  ever  be  sung, 
Round  snowy  camps  of  the  Kanadas; 
High,  "golden  lettered,"  your  name  shall  glow, 
On  beauteous  curve  of  her  magic  bow, 
High  arching  Niagara's  mighty  flow, 

Old — but  forever  young. 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 
November  8,  1919. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


THE  LITTLE  KING 

I  may  not  love  the  great  kings, 
Kings  who  rule  below; 
Frigid  hearts;  false  tongues; 
Scheming  ways  and  cold; 
But  I  can  love  the  Little  King 
The  prophets  sang  of  old; 
The  King  to  Whom  Wise  Men  from  afar- 
Led  by  a  soft  and  silvery  star 
Brought  myrrh  and  frankincense  and  gold. 

I  may  not  trust  the  great  kings 

Trembling  in  their  fear, 

The  pathways  to  their  palaces 

Are  paved  with  skulls  of  men; 

But  I  can  trust  the  Little  King 

Of  blessed  Bethlehem; 

And  I  can  follow  His  silvery  star — 

Like  Caspar,  Melchoir,  Balthazar — 

'Twill  lead  me  home  again. 

I    cannot    pray    the    great    kings, 
My  heart  is  chilled  with  dread; 
Cruel  kings;  cold  kings; 
Pride-ful  unto  death; 
But  I  can  pray  the  Little  King 
Of  Lowly  Nazareth. 


37 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 

O  Little  King  of  Juda 
Lift  up  this  fearful  pall; 
O  Jesus,  Mary's  Little  Son 
Have  mercy  on  us  all. 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 
Christmas,  1917. 


ON  PRESENTING  A  HAT  TO  AN  IRISH 
POET 

Here's  my  hand,  and  here's  your  hat, 
If  Custom's-man  don't  plunder  it, 

'Twill  fit  your  poll, 

And  on  my  soul, 

'Twill  make  you  younger  than  you're  old, 
And  grace  the  face  in  under  it! 

Here's  hoping  you  will  ever  hear 
Above  the  world's  roar  and  din, 

Baying  of  Bran 

And  brave  Skolawn; 
Pipes  of  the  Sluagh  Shee  at  dawn 
And  the  Dord  Fiann  of  Valiant  Finn! 

May  fiery  Maeve  and  Piobaire  Rhue, 
And  Tir-na-n-og's  high  youthful  cheers, 

Under  your  bonnet 

Lilt  a  sonnet, 
Forever  and  another  day 
To  sing  you  down  the  coming  years. 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 
38 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


IN  MEMORIAM 

Daniel  P.  McGarrity — A  university  student  of 
Elmwood,  Ont.  Enlisted  in  Canadian  army. 
Killed  in  action  at  Ypres,  June  3,  1916;  aged  19. 

He  loved  the  home  his  people  made  between 
The  little  hills;  the  woods  and  every  place 
From  mighty  Huron  to  the  swift  Saugeen; 
He  loved  them  white  with  snow,   or  brave  with 

green  ; 

And  old  and  young  were  glad  to  see  his  face, 
Or  meet  him  on  the  road  a.  joke  to  pass 
And  give  him  greetings  come^home  from  Mass. 

<7 

He  loved  his  mother  and  his  father  grey; 

His  ways  were  their  ways,  he  had  learned  it  so; 

To  them  it  seems  but  one  short  yesterday 

Since  at  their  knees  they  taught  him  how  to  pray 

And  trained  his  footsteps  steadily  to  go. 

He  loved  his  brothers  and  his  sisters  all 

He  loved  his  home  and  heard  his  country's  call. 

He  loved  the  faith  his  fathers  loved  of  yore, 

He  learned  it  lovingly  when  but  a  lad ; 

The  grand  old  faith  his  people  had  before 

He  loved  the  self-same  way,  nor  wanted  more, 

Just  to  possess  it  made  his  brave  heart  glad; 

The  faith  which  taught  him  how  to  die  and  live 

To  love  his  country  and  his  friends  forgive. 

39 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 

Why  speak  of  sorrow  when  it  only  tends 
To  common  custom?    When  the  story's  told, 
He  fought  the  fight  for  country,  home  and  friends, 
What  need  has  sorrow  here  to  make  amends ; 
The  pulses  of  his  heart  were  purest  gold; 
And  heroes'  deeds  in  every  land  and  clime 
Will  be  remembered  to  the  ends  of  time. 

The  roaring  guns  and  blasts  of  iron  showers 

That  sing  his  requiem  over  old  Ypres, 

He  hears  them  not  in  God's  eternal  hours; 

But  southern  winds,  and  Belgium's  loveliest  flowers, 

Will  blow  about  him  on  a  happier  day; 

And  in  our  hearts  his  memory  will  be  green, 

As  maples  growing  by  his  own  Saugeen. 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 


40 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


TRIBUTE  TO 
SIR  GILBERT  CHESTERTON 

On  Reading  the  Ballad  of  the  White  Horse 

A  mighty  man  is  Chesterton: 

Gigantic,  towering  vast; 

God's    banner    of    truth    on    his    vision    sails 

O'er  Danish  raiders,  o'er  Alfred's  Tales, 

Held  high  aloft  to  the  fiercest  gales, 

Spiked  splendid  to  his  mast. 

His  sane  eyes  sweep  great  spaces  where 

No  king  on  earth  is  throned, — 

Like  Caspar,  Melchoir,  Balthazar, — 

He  sees   through   a   mist  neath   a  wondrous  star 

Blest  Mother  and  Babe  in  the  distance  far 

Soft  golden  horizoned. 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


CHIPPAWA 

O  have  you  seen  Miss  Chippawa 

In  summery  dress  of  velvet  green? 
She  lives  beside  Niagara 

Tucked  in  from  swiftly  running  stream. 
No  widow's  crepe  adorns  her  shape, 

No  sorrowing  garments,  sadly  hung; 
But  billowy  green  of  emerald  sheen, 

And   willowy  plumes  are  round   her  flung. 

A  modest  maid  is  Chippawa, 

Down  summer's  twilight  leafy  lane, 
She's  not  amiss  to  grant  a  kiss, 

Or  coax  you  to  return  again; 
Bold   Buckhorn's  smiles  her  heart  beguiles, 

And  lovely  Navy  reaching  south, 
From    down    the    bay    the    north    winds    spray 

Niagara's  kisses  on  her  mouth. 

A  knowing  girl  is  Chippawa, 

That  swift  Niagara  cannot  coax; 
She  might  agree,  if  only  he 

Would  bide  awee  and  meet  her  folks; 
The  Bard  of  Ayr  loved  Bonnie  Doon, 

The  Lee  is  loved  in  Erin's  clime ; 
Niagara  swift  sends  souls  adrift; 

But  Chippawa  holds  this  heart  of  mine. 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 
42 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


ST.  PATRICK 

O  Patrick  of  the  golden  tongue, 

So  silvery  soft  and  musical, 

Amazed  the  bards  enraptured  hung; 

And  never  since  was  Gospel  sung 

So  lovingly,  so  lyrical: 

Teaching  the  Word — to  them  a  dream 

The  Story  of  the  Nazarene; 

Showing  the  light  through  gleam  by  gleam, 

A  God's  most  blessed  miracle! 

O  Patrick  of  the  blazing  zeal, 
A  flaming  fire  of  poetry ; 
Your  word  was  not  held  up  by  steel: 
God's  truth  and  justice — peal  on  peal 
Of  Faith  and  Love  and  Charity. 
Long  has  your  teaching  stood  the  test, 
Spread  by  your  sons  from  East  to  West, 
In  all  the  world  we  hold  it  best: 
St.  Patrick's  Blessed  Trinity. 

O  Patrick  firm  is  your  faith  in  our  hearts 

Down  through  the  weary  years, 

High  over  gold  or  wealth  of  the  east; 

The  long,  long  years  of  famine  or  feast; 

The  scorn  of  a  world's  jeers; 

Blood  red  ran  the  Marne,  the  Lys  and  the  Aisne, 

43 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 

But  Ireland's  rivers  by  Saxon  and  Dane, 
Ran  redder  still,  again  and  again 
With  your  children's  blood  and  tears. 

Today  good  Saint  on  your  festival 

Our  faith  is  true  and  strong; 

The  staunch  old  faith  that  our  fathers  had — 

The  faith  that  still  makes  your  children  glad, 

The  faith  that  conquers  wrong. 

Keep  thou  our  feet  that  we  will  not  stray 

From  truth,  from  light,  from  God's  good  way, 

And  lead  us  good  saint  to  a  better  day 

Of  happiness  and  song. 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 
St.  Patrick's  Day,  1919. 


44 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


THE  SISTER  ISLANDS  OF  NIAGARA 

(The  Islands  are  Located  in  the  Swiftest  Currents 

of  the  River,  Among  the  Rapids  Above 

the  Cataract.) 

Undauntedly  they  face  the  enfilades, 

The  Sister  Islands,  breaking  sturdily 

The  rush  of  troubled  waters.    All  around 

Is  turbulent  destruction,  and  the  whirl 

Of  madly  rushing  rapids,  like  white  ghosts, 

Hurled  on  to  the  abysmal  sacrifice. 

Relentlessly  the  waters  lash  the  isles 

In  maddened  fury,  hastening  the  day 

When  rock-bound  sides  shall  crumble  to  the  touch 

And  disappear;  when  centuries  shall  greet 

No  frowning  precipice.    Time's  far  release 

Shall  mark  the  free,  untrammeled  interflow 

Of  mighty  waters  through  Niagara's  gorge 

Forever  rolling  onward  to  the  sea. 

The  Sister  Islands  Of  Niagara! — 
What  battles  of  the  soul  are  fought  and  won 
Within  their  fern-embowered  traceries, 
Where  love  immortal  triumphs,  and  the  light 
Of  far  remembrance  brings  the  doubting  heart 
Divine  forgiveness.     Sad,  despondent  souls 
That  see  within  the  rapids'  swirling  foam 
Release  from  grief,  awaken  tremuluous: 
God's  sunshine  overhead,  the  song  of  bird, 

45 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


The  circling  sea-gulls  in  their  whirling  flight, 

The  trees  in  stately  majesty,  the  rocks 

Whose  barren  sides  give  out  rich  tufts  of  green 

All  breathe  of  life  supernal,  infinite; 

Awaken  faith  in  God's  eternal  plan 

For  this  great  universe.     Who  knows  this  faith 

Shall  falter  not  in  dim  uncertainties, 

But  wait  in  glad  serenity  of  heart 

Until  the  soul's  great  victory  shall  come. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


IN  CHATEAU  THIERRY 

In  Chateau  Thierry,  where  my  laddie  sleeps, 
God's  white-winged  angel  tender  vigil  keeps, 
Among  the  reeds  where  circling  moonbeams  play, 
Driving  the  shadows  fearlessly  away; 
Below  the  hill  where  broken  roads  divide, 
White  gleaming  crosses  rise  on  every  side; 
My  laddie's  cross  a  sacred  cross  shall  be 
Because  of  One  Who  died  to  set  men  free. 

In  Chateau  Thierry  through  a  night  of  fear, 
They  heard  the  tramp  of  grey  hordes  drawing  near ; 
Trembling  they  saw — through  God's  most  blessed 

will- 
America's  brave  sons  upon  the  hill  ; 
Singing  they  came  in  rhythm  glorified, 
That  mingled  with  their  heart-beats  when  they  died. 

Last  night  I  heard — through  some  sweet  mystery — 
My  laddie's  song:  the  song  of  victory; 
Be  still  my  heart ;  this  gentle  lad  of  mine 
Has  borne  the  burden  of  the  Law  Divine; 
No  grief  of  mine  shall  break  his  peaceful  rest; 
His  song  was  God's  sweet  song,  forever  blest. 


47 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


LEST  WE  FORGET 

Dear  Lord,  we  see  from  out  the  midst  of  tears 

The  long,  unbroken  chain  of  golden  years 

That  Thou  hast  given  us;  but  can  we  see 

One  single  day  that  we  have  given  Thee? 

One  single  day  with  white  sweet  hours  complete, 

To  lay  in  spotless  shining  at  Thy  feet ! 

From  early  morning  until  set  of  sun, 
So  many  things  are  waiting  to  be  done; 
So  many  small,  unfinished  tasks  we  know; 
So  many  friends  who  softly  come  and  go; 
So  many  cares  that  press  unceasingly; 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  us  if  we  seek  not  Thee? 

Thou  knowest  every  act  that  we  may  do, 
Thou  knowest  all  the  false  hearts  and  the  true; 
Thou  knowest  if  an  evil  thought  remain, 
And  when  we  leave  the  depths  to  fall  again. 
Thou  knowest  all — and  still  we  ask  to  be 
Forgiven,  if  we  should  not  seek  for  Thee. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


IN  BETHLEHEM 

Tenderly  softly  down  the  years 

The  Christmas  story  steals, 

Laying  aside  its  hopes  and  fears 

The  world  adoring  kneels; 

Calmly,  prayerfully  to  and  fro 

The  Wise  Men  softly  tread, 

And  Joseph  worships  the  sweet  surprise, 

And  the  love  that  shines  from  the  mother's  eyes, 

As  she  nestles  the  Christ  King's  head. 

Peacefully  quietly  down  the  years 

The  shepherds  gently  keep, 

In  silent  prayer,  their  watchful  care, 

O'er  the  little  Christ  King's  sleep; 

The  moonbeams  glide  o'er  a  mountain  side, 

Where  the  shade  of  a  cross  may  rest  ; 

But  the  angel's  lullaby  sweet  and  low — 

In  the  tender  lovelight's  radiant  glow — 

Will  cradle  the  Christ  King's  nest. 

Anxiously,  hopefully  down  the  years 
A  world  grown  sad  with  fear, 
Watches  the  light  beyond  the  tears, 
The  little  Christ  draws  near; 
Bringing  rest  to  the  weary  heart, 
For  anger  and  strife  must  cease, 
Before  the  love  in  the  Christ  King's  heart 
The  clouds  of  sorrow  dissolve,  depart, 
In  the  wonderful  light  of  peace. 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 

Joyously,  gladly  down  the  years 

The  Christmas  chorus  rings, 

Laying  aside  its  smiles  and  tears 

The  world  adoring  sings; 

And  the  little  Christ  King  slumbers  on, 

But  the  Christmas  story  stays, 

Its  wonderful,  magical  strength  to  prove, 

A  beacon  of  light  from  the  Father's  love, 

To  lead  us  to  better  days. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 

DUFFERIN  ISLANDS 
Niagara  Falls,  Ontario 

A  circle  in  a  wooded  screen, 
Remote  from  rampant  travel  stress, 
Where  nature  in   ripe  loveliness 
Achieves  her  miracles  of  green. 

Surrounding  it  the  maples  rise, 
To  crown  the  blossom'd  wonders  low, 
That  mingle  with  the  water's  glow, 
In  mirror'd  gleam  from  summer  skies. 

Beneath  the  circling  rainbow  rays 
By  cloister'd  cloud-tops  glorified, 
Two  friendly  nations  side  by  side, 
In  peace  and  plenty  greet  the  days. 

No  soldier  tramp,  no  threatening  gun, 
To  mar  with  hate  this  scene  sublime, 
Where  God's  sweet  emblem  bides  with  time 
To  bless  two  lands  where  love  has  won. 

O  Sister  land  of  Deathless  Fame, 

On  Duffer  in 's  Isle  we  seem  to  see — 

Through  marching  hosts  of  Liberty — 

Niagara's  sons  who  died  for  thee, 

And    in    their    life-blood    lives    thy    name. 

51 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


DEAR  SACRED  HEART 

Dear  Sacred  Heart,  so  reconciled  in  sweetest  love 

to  pay 
Thy  Father's  price,  list  to  Thy  child   and   teach 

me  to  obey. 

And  as  Thou  gavest  all  of  Thine,  all  that  Thou 

hadst  to  give, 
Fold  in  Thine  own  this  heart  of  mine  and  teach 

me  to  forgive. 

And  in  the  way  of  fervent  love  for  Thy  abiding 

grace, 
Lead   me   some   day   in    realms   above   to   see  my 

Saviour's  face. 

Kneeling  beside  His  heavenly  throne,  bearing  mine 

humble  part, 
Only  content  that   I   atone  and   rest  within   His 

Heart. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


WHEN  LOVE  GROWS  WEARY 

When  love  grows  weary  and  he  fain  would  go, 
To  dwell  in  other  hearts,  then  woulds't  thou  know, 
Twere  best  to  keep  him  not,  hold  wide  the  door, 
And  bid  him  gently  to  return  no  more; 
No  surer  thing  than  this,  neath  sky  or  sea, 
That  when  world  weary,  he'll  return  to  thee. 

Then  be  not  idle  while  he  is  away, 
But  guard  thy  heart  with  patience  to  obey 
His  lightest  whisper,  lest  he  seek  thy  door, 
Again  to  wander  and  return  no  more; — 
Before  the  light  of  memory  hold  the  screen 
Of  kindness,  lest  some  grave,  sad  fault  be  seen, 
Then  will  he  stay  and  grieve  not  to  depart, 
Content  to  rest  forever  in  thy  heart. 

AGNUS  DEI 

Lamb  of  God  in  meek  atonement  taken, 
Thy  sacred  heart  betrayed,  denied,  forsaken; 
Have  mercy  on  us. 

Lamb  of  God,  if  ever  we  should  grieve  Thee, 
Or  wound  Thy  heart;  that  we  may  never  leave 
Thee, 

Have  mercy  on  us. 

Lamb  of  God,  when  darkness  o'er  us  stealing 
Hides  our  loved  ones,  naught  but  death  revealing, 
Give  us  peace. 

53 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


FOUND  IN  PASSING 

Something   for  the  wounded   hearts 

Weary  of  the  night; 
Something  for  the  worn  hands 

Working  for  the  right; 
All  the  nights  are  darkest 

Just  before  the  dawn; 
And  the  sun  shines  brightest 

When  the  storm  has  gone. 

Nature's  fairest  flowers  bloom 

Brighter  for  the  rain; 
Yesterday's  sad  moments 

Never  come  again; 
Sorrows  that  surround  you, 

Like  the  good  you  do, 
Soon  will  be  a  memory, 

Left  to  comfort  you. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  sleeps 

One  you  love  the  best, 
Cold,  still  hands  are  folded 

On  the  quiet  breast; 
Somewhere,  it  is  written, 

All  the  world  may  see, 
"Blessed  is  the  mourner: 

I  will  solace  thee." 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


Do  not  seek  for  happiness, 

Keep  your  conscience  true; 
In  the  great  tomorrow, 

It  will  come  to  you; 
Bringing  rest  to  tired  hands, 

Bidding  sorrows  cease, 
Healing  all  the  heart  wounds 

In  the  light  of  peace. 


55 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLSIDE 

Sunrise  on  the  hillside  when  the  morning  brightens, 
Pine    trees    and    poplar    leaves,    winds    above   me 

whirled; 
Dewy-skirted    cloud    tops    while    the    whole    air 

lightens 
With    a    trembling    radiance    circling    round    the 

world. 

Sunrise    on    the    hillside    where    the    wild    grapes 

cluster ; 
Breaking  through  the  bracken  when  the  night  is 

done; 
Song    notes    from    silver    throats,    every  heart    a 

fluster, 
Piping    out    its    greetings    to    the    all-embracing 

sun. 

Sunrise  on  the  hillside  when  the  heart  is  breaking, 
Bleak   days  and   reeking  ways  from   the   dripping 

sword ; 
Yet  above  the  gladdened  hills  steals  the  sunlight 

waking 
Tender,  hopeful  visions  of  the  ever-risen  Lord. 

Sunrise  on  the  hillside  near  the  streamlet  flowing, 
Shadowing  the  city  street,  reeking  in  the  sun, 
Holding  me,  enfolding  me  yet  my  heart  is  going 
To  the  wooded  hillside  when  its  earthly  work  is 
done. 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 

SOLID  COMFORT 
(A  camping  resort  at  Port  Colborne,  Ont.) 

Where  the  waves  in  sportive  play 
Never  weary  all  the  day, 
Casting  up  their  sparkling  spray 

And  soft,  shining  foam, 
Near  the  water's  snowy  crest 
There  does  "Solid  Comfort"  rest, 
Weary  nature's  cosy  nest 

And  the  camper's  home. 

There  the  sweetest  melodies 
From  the  warblers  in  the  trees 
Echo  ever  on  the  breeze; 

And  at  morning's  break 
Steals  the  sun,  a  beacon  bright 
From  the  gloomy  shades  of  night, 
Casting  rays  of  joyous  light 

O'er  the  shining  lake. 

Bathing  in  the  waters  clear, 
Fishing  on  the  "old  long  pier," 
Watching  white-winged  vessels  steer 

For  the  harbor's  light; 
Pine  trees'  fragrance  in  the  air, 
Happy  faces  everywhere, 
Silver  moonbeams  soft  and  fair 

Crown  the  summer  night. 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


From  the  crowded  city's  heat, 
Glaring  lights  and  noisy  street, 
To  this  peaceful  shelter  sweet, 

Weary  travelers  come 
Joyfully,  for  well  they  know, 
Cool  and  strong  the  breezes  blow, 
Fresh   and  pure   their  hearts  will   grow 

In  their  summer  home. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


SUMMER'S  PRISONER 

Mr.  Bumble  Bee  is  buzzin', 

Mr.  Yellow  Jack,  his  cousin, 

Are  looking  just  like  berries  made  of  gold. 

Mr.  Tanager  and  Robin 

Hop  around,  both  ends  a-bobbin', 

Both  so  happy  that  they  haven't  time  to  scold. 
O,  there's  fairies  in  the  beeches, 
You  can  hear  them  as  they  play; 
Little  green  men,  little  brown  men 
Going  swishing  through  the  hay; 
And  if  I  could  quit  my  labors 
They  might  be  my  loving  neighbors ! — 
But  what's  the  use  of  talking 
When  you  can't  get  off  today? 

Up  the  creek  the  boys  are  swimmin' 

Far  away  from  work  and  wimmen, 

With  ne'er  a  coat  at  all  but  one  of  tan. 

I  can  see  them  through  the  window 

Brown  as  any  heathen  Hindoo 

Or  statuettes  in  bronze  from  old  Japan. 
O,  there's  fairies  in  the  river 
By  the  willows  on  the  bay, 
An'  Bob  Murry  saw  the  ripples 
On  the  water  where  they  play! 
And  I  know  that  I  could  find  them, 
For  I'd  swim  right  up  behind  them! — 
But  what's  the  use  of  talking 
When  you  can't  get  off  today? 

— THOMAS  J.  FLYNN. 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


THE  QUESTION  OF  THE  SOUL 

A  nation's  thought  that  ever  upwards  tends 
Shall  build  a  wall  that  sterling  truth  defends; 
A  wall  that  rises  in  adversity 
Strong  with  the  God-Like  strength  of  Liberty. 
The  seed  divinely  planted  there  shall  bloom 
On  sun-kissed  hill  side  or  through  arid  gloom 
Of  tunnelled  traffic  ways,  seeking  its  goal, 
The  fragrant  flower  of  a  nation's  soul. 
Not  tares  within  the  wheat,  or  choking  weed, 
To  bind  the  heart  of  man  to  evil  deed; 
But  light  unto  the  world,  a  recompense, 
For  our  great  Sovereign's  beneficence. 

The  question  ever  faces  us,  shall  we 
Rise  with  our  country's  thought,  give  graciously 
The  higher  self  that  in  the  conscience  lies, 
Or  shall  our  souls  be  slaves  where  honor  dies? 
Our  harvest   here,   what  shall   the   portion   yield, 
The  Judas  portion  of  the  Potter's  Field? 
Like  Esau's  harvest — shall  we  barter  it? 
And  leave  across  the  Book  Of  Life — The  Infinite — 
The  traitor's  mark?    Or  shall  the  souls  of  us 
Rise  at  our  journey's  end  victorious? 
The  question  faced  us  every  step  we  trod ; 
The  answer  rests  between  ourselves  and  God. 


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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


DOUBT— 

Reluctantly  I  stood, 

Bleak  doubt  was  reaching  out  bold  arms  to  me: 

Reward  came  only  to  mad  spirits  free 

Who  sang  of  wanton  revelry; 

Yet  somewhere  was  the  good. 

I  looked  above  the  blue, 
Hushed  in  a  calm  a  glowing  cloudlet  red, 
Clear  as  a  flame  upon  the  heavens  spread, 
This  message  from  the  noble  dead: 
To  honor's  ways  be  true. 

Truth  sanctifies  the  sod — 

Not  as  a  wanderer  to  passion's  goal — 

But  in  humility  and  self-control, 

Truth  lights  the  paths  that  bind  the  eager  soul 

To  bear  the  torch  of  God. 


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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


A  SONG  FOR  IRELAND 

There's  a  call  from  the  west,  'tis  a  call  of  men, 
From  a  nation  where  hearts  are  breaking, 
They  are  seeking  a  place  in  the  world  again, 
That  the  councils  of  freedom  are  making; 
There's  a  call  in  my  heart  that  answers  you, 
Dear  Island  my  eyes  have  seen  never, 
The  spirit  of  Emmett  is  keeping  me  true, 
To  Freedom  For  Ireland  Forever. 

There's  a  joy  in  my  heart  for  that  land  serene, 

Where  Patrick's  great  mission  was  given ; 

Every  step   that   he   trod   through   her  shamrocks 

green, 

Brought  a  soul  to  our  Father  in  heaven; 
Dear  land  of  my  people  in  grief  and  care, 
Thy  courage  undaunted  shines  ever — 
The  souls  of  thy  heroes  are  hovering  there, 
For  Freedom  For  Ireland  Forever. 

There's  a  call  from  the  land  that  longs  to  greet 

The  joy  of  a  free  world's  morning; 

With  a  banner  of  green  that  has  scorned  defeat, 

The  emblems  of  freedom  adorning; 

And  the  shamrocks  will   bloom  where  O'Connell 

lies, 

While  hearts  in  a  free  land  breathe  ever, 
A  prayer  to  our  Father  Who  ruleth  the  skies, 
For  Freedom  For  Ireland  Forever. 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


MARY  IMMACULATE! 

Mary  Immaculate!    Queen  of  the  infinite 
Realms  of  Heaven,  I  call  upon  thee, 

Hope  of  the  desolate,   hear  the  disconsolate, 
In  thy  sweet  mercy  have  pity  on  me. 

Mother  Inviolate!     Be  my  dear  advocate; 

One  ray  of  light  in  the  darkness  I  see; 
Shine   softly   down   on   us,   star   of   the   universe, 

In  thy  sweet  mercy  have  pity  on  me. 

Thou  art  so  near  to  the  Saviour  who  died  for  us, 
No  other  hope  in  my  sorrow  I  see; 

Ask  him  to  pardon  the  heart  that  has  wounded  him, 
In  thy  sweet  mercy  have  pity  on  me. 

Gentle  and  innocent  Maid  of  the  Orient, 
Chosen  of  God,  His  dear  Mother  to  be; 

From  this  dark  wilderness,  lead  me  to  happiness, 
In  thy  sweet  mercy  have  pity  on  me.  * 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


LEST  WE  BE  JUDGED 

In  the  near  circle  of  thy  daily  meetings, 
When  others  criticize  the  absent  friend, 

For  hateful  deeds  or  harsh  words  quickly  spoken; 
Keep  thine  own  Counsel  even  to  the  end. 

The  golden  veil  of  silence  often  censures 
The  ready  tongue  and  mischief-loving  mind; 

A  hint  ignored,  a  question   left  unanswered, 
Give  evil  hearts  no  chance  to  be  unkind. 

And  in  thy  heart  has  kindness  been  a  stranger, 
Or  is  there  still  a  spot  from  anger  free; 

When    thy    turn    comes   on    God's   great    day    of 

judging, 
That  little  spot  will  sweetly  plead  for  thee. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


THE  MOTHER  HEART 

Close  in  the  guarding  that  the  Angel  Of  Death 
Over  the  churchyard  keeps; 
Safe  from  the  fury  of  the  storm  king's  breath, 
A  gentle  mother  sleeps. 

Within  the  shadow  that  the  maple  throws 
Across  the  grass-grown  mound; 
Sheltered  from  summer  sun  and  winter  snows 
Her  resting  place  is  found. 

Sweet  as  the  violets  that  make  their  home 
Above  her  quiet  breast; 
White  as  the  marble  bands  around  her  tomb, 
They  laid  her  down  to  rest. 

Is  she  rejoicing  where  the  angels  roam, 
Bearing  the  joyful  part? 
Is  she  still  pleading  for  the  ones  at  home, 
Missing  the  mother  heart? 

Calmly  her  gentle  spirit  waiting  stands, 
Beneath  the  Saviour's  throne, 
Until  the  guiding  of  the  angel's  hands, 
Shall  bring  her  loved  ones  home. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


GRATITUDE 

Hope  of  my  weary  soul,  bearing  for  me 
All  that  sad  anguish  on  Calvary's  tree; 
What  shall  I  bring  to  Thee,  what  shall  I  do 
To  prove  my  heart  will  be  faithful  and  true? 

Nations  adoring  Thee;  kings  at  Thy  call, 
Yielding  their  crowns  to  Thee,  Ruler  of  all; 
In  Thy  great  majesty,  gentle  and  sweet, 
Thou  lookest  down  on  me  here  at  Thy  feet. 

All  that  I  asked  of  Thee  Thou  gavest  me ; 
My  heart  turns  gratefully  ever  to  Thee; 
All  that  I  love  the  best  gladly  I  bring 
To  lay  at  Thy  feet,  my  Saviour  and  King. 

Through     death's    dread    mystery,     feeble — alone, 
I'll  have  to  pass  ere  I  kneel  at  Thy  throne; 
Strange  is  the  way,  and  dark,  Lord,  let  me  see 
One  ray  of  heaven's  light  shining  for  me. 


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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


ON  CALVARY  MOUNTAIN 

Who  is  that  Wounded  One  peacefully  sleeping 
On  the  rough  mountain  side  under  the  rood? 
What  is  that  sound  we  hear,  hush !  'tis  the  weeping 
Of  Mary  the  mother  of  God. 

Down  from  that  heavy  rough  cross  they  have  taken 
Lifeless  and  bleeding  her  innocent  Son; 
Blows  cannot  reach  him  now,  tears  cannot  waken 
The  sleep  that  His  suffering  has  won. 

See  the  dark  clouds  that  the  heavens  are  calling, 
White-faced  the  watchers  stand,  silent  with  fear; 
Mary  has  seen  them  not,  her  tears  are  falling; 
The  hope  of  her  sad  heart  lies  here. 

Sees  she  her  Infant  Son  smiling  to  cheer  her; 
Thinks  she  of  Bethlehem's  wonderful  night ; 
Sees  she  His  dear  angel  face  lying  near  her, 
So  still  in  the  fast  fading  light. 

Sweet  was  His  welcoming,  joyous  the  greeting, 
"Glory  to  God  on  high,  peace  cometh  now;" 
Ah!  but  the  pitiful  stains  that  are  greeting 
The  thorns  they  have  placed  on  His  brow. 

Prayerfully,  softly  they  gather  around  her, 
Gently  they  plead,  while  the  storm  gathers  on, 
Vain  is  their  comforting,  sorrow  has  found  her 
Beside  the  still  heart  of  her  son. 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


TWO  GHOSTS  WENT  WALKING  AT 
MARBLEHEAD 

Two  ghosts  went  walking  at  Marblehead 
When  a  weird  west  wind  was  blowing; 
No  footsteps  followed  the  path  they  led 
Over  rock-rimmed  sea  dunes  going, 
But  ever  they  spoke  of  the  honored  dead, 
And  a  debt  that  the  world  was  owing. 

With  faces  turned  towards  the  storm-swept  skies 

They  mounted  a  path  entwining 

A  craggy  cliff  where  the  wild  waves  rise, 

In  the  pale  moon's  eerie  shining; 

And  their  thoughts  were  of  faith  that  never  dies, 

And  the  crown  of  the  silver  lining. 

One  ghost  was  tall  with  a  kingly  air, 

Nobility's  mantle  showing, 

The  other  was  winsome  and  sweet  and  fair, 

With  her  graceful  garments  flowing  ; 

And  the  knowledge  of  all  the  world  was  there, 

In  their  clear,  calm  vision  glowing. 

High  over  the  storm  a  silver  lure 
Swept  out  o'er  the  surge  tipped  sighing; 
"Oh,  Hear  Ye  the  Ghost  of  Literature, 
And  Poetry's  wistful  crying, 
And  Seek  Ye  the  Pinnacled  Pathway  Pure, 
And  the  Golden  Deed  Undying." 

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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


MOTHER  OF  GOD 

Mother  of  God,  Immaculate,  thou  shinest, 
Earth's  bright  ideal  gem  of  purest  light; 
Mother  of  Him,  Whose  gentle  hand  entwineth 
The  human  heart  within  the  Infinite. 

Mother  of  God,  our  souls  delight  to  name  thee; 
We,  too,  would  tread  the  pathway  of  a  star; 
And  falter  on  while  heaven  bends  to  claim  thee, 
Within  the  regions  where  God's  angels  are. 

Mother  of  God,  Blest  influence  inspiring, 
Beyond  the  landscape  of  eternity, 
Reach  out  thy  hands,  the  interim  transpiring, 
And  make  thy  gift  to  God  the  heart  of  me. 


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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


FRATERNITY 

Hold  not  thy  life  so  full  of  care  or  labor, 

That  thou  can'st  never  see, 

When  sorrow's  shade  has  fallen  on  thy  neighbor, 

And  he  has  need  of  thee. 

For  time  rolls  swiftly  on  and  joys  come  rarest, 

When  age  has  crowned  the  years; 

And    hearts    are    hiding    deep — where    smiles    are 

fairest — 
In  wells  of  unshed  tears. 

It  is  not  meet  that  ours  should  be  the  pleasure 

Of  joys  that  never  cease; 

Each    heart    must    know    the    depths   of    sorrow's 

measure 
Before  that  heart  finds  peace. 

And  even  little  words  of  kindness  spoken, 
In  sweetest  charity, 

May  heal  the  wounded  heart  and  be  a  token, 
Of  sympathy  from  thee. 


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The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


IN  MEMORY  OF  RICHARD  CRICK 
Died  March  16,  191? 

When  first  I  knew  Richard  I  held  aloof — 

He  had  his  life  to  live  and  I  had  mine — 

No  friendship  would  I  give,  merely  the  proof 

Of  service  measured  by  the  dollar  line ; 

His  kindly  helpfulness  I  would  not  see; 

What  need  was  there  of  friendship's  gift  from  me. 

And  then  as  through  a  mist  I  came  to  know 
The  radiant  story  that  his  life  work  told: 
The  brave  endeavor  that  in  steadfast  glow 
All  star-like  shone  for  minds  of  lesser  mould; 
And  through  it  all  a  quiet  strength  that  proved 
His  faithful  loyal  trust  in  those  he  loved. 

Swiftly  the  busy  years  rolled  on ;  there  came 
Quite  silently  to  me  a  vision  rare, 
That  breathed  a  reverence  for  Richard's  name: 
It  seemed  the  hand  work  of  my  God  was  there, 
That  I  might  learn  before  the  journey's  end 
Immortal  truths  from  one  who  was  my  friend. 


The  Search  for  the  Holy  Spirit 


ANN  AND  CATHERINE 

Two  little  elves  with  flying  feet, 
So  artlessly  have  captured  me, 
That  luring  dreams  of  reverie 
Recede  before  them  in  defeat ; 
Yet  whether  naughty,  whether  good, 
I  would  not  change  them  if  I  could. 

Two  little  elves  with  laughing  eyes, 
Impelled  by  elfin  energy, 
Have  made  creative  fancies  flee, 
And  now  inert  ambition  lies; 
Yet  whether  naughty,  whether  good, 
I  would  not  change  them  if  I  could. 


DATE  DUE 


AA    001  248  963    9 


